


To Fall Just a Little Bit

by thursdaystgiles (mokuyoubi)



Category: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005)
Genre: Candy Metaphors, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:39:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/thursdaystgiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The things Charlie wants, why, he scarcely can believe, and he’s not sure what he would do if he got them.  Charlie wants, Wonka's confused and neither of them knows what is the right thing to do. (Charlie is 16/17.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Fall Just a Little Bit

Charlie was very busy being grateful that it took him quite a long time to get to his own bitter centre. Some distant part of his brain tells him it's merely the hormones that come with being a teenager that cause him to feel and think the things he does. And maybe, hypothetically, Charlie might agree. But it doesn't stop him from feeling the bitterness rise up in his chest like heartburn whenever Willy Wonka steps into the room.

His mother has taken to chastising him for his tone of voice and what she calls his 'attitude,' and it's true that when she speaks, he is filled with resentment. After all, hadn't it been Charlie who had found the ticket, and Charlie who had so pleased Mr. Wonka, and Charlie who had saved their family from poverty? When he starts thinking these things, Charlie knows it has to be the hormones, or whatever, because he doesn't sincerely think like that. He knows he really is terribly lucky to have such a wonderful family, no matter what else he's been given in life. 

Charlie knows he has no right to feel the way he does. Could anyone in the world be any luckier than he has been? But somehow, recently, Charlie’s found he wants _more_. He keeps this very quietly to himself, for fear that Wonka might discover it. Wonka has never cared for greedy people. Besides, it seems safer to keep it inside. The things Charlie wants, why, he scarcely can believe, and he’s not sure what he would do if he got them. 

It was terribly startling, when Charlie realised just what all the odd things he was feeling meant. For weeks his heart would speed up when his eyes lighted on Wonka; his heart seemed to leap into his throat whenever he and Wonka were close; if they happened to accidentally touch, breathing became somewhat of an issue for Charlie. At first, he’d sincerely thought he was ill, feeling hot and flushed all the time, dizzy and delirious. Charlie hadn’t had a great deal of experience with attraction. There had been a girl, in sixth grade, who Charlie had fancied a bit. But since having won his trip to the factory, Charlie hasn’t spent all that much time outside. He rationalised his attraction that way, at first, that it was simply because he didn’t spend time with anyone _but_ Wonka and his parents…Only…

Only, there was much more to it than that. There are many layers to Willy Wonka, each darker than the next, and safely hidden beneath marshmallow-y fluff. Most people don’t bother to look any deeper, and really, Charlie would be lying if he said he knows and understands all the layers. Some, however, and startlingly easy to see, and Charlie doesn't know how everyone else misses them. There is, at Wonka's core, a font of peppermint scented sincerity, and therefore he never lies. He _does_ hide very, very well. He uses different tactics for different people. Most people are put off by an odd smile and high pitched laughter. When Charlie was a child, Wonka used a childish front to hide behind. He worked on Charlie's level, and sometimes below it, and that was when Charlie would catch him and reprimand him and set him straight. 

They had, in recent years, reached a point where they were comfortable with one another. It seemed Wonka had deemed Charlie trustworthy, and let a few of those top most layers melt away. It is very nice to hold a conversation with Wonka where the man’s eyes are alight with honest enthusiasm, and his dialogue is fluid and lucid and intelligent. Nevertheless, Wonka has kept his boundaries—physical, emotion, psychological—that Charlie has always known better than to push. Only recently, Charlie has been wondering quite a lot what would happen if he were to push them. 

There are so many things about Wonka that Charlie wants to understand. Charlie has heard a handful of stories of Wonka’s past, over and over and though he knows this is a defence of Wonka’s, Charlie is still glad for those glimpses into Wonka’s life. But he wants more. He wants to hear the boring stories of everyday life, wants to know what takes place at the end of the day, when Wonka ensconces himself in his room and lets all his barriers slip away. This, coupled with the new physical attraction, fills Charlie with an aching longing. And Wonka isn’t making things any easier. 

Around Charlie's sixteenth birthday, Wonka became scarce. Charlie's never really scheduled meetings with his mentor, but he's never had to. They'd run into each other often times earlier in the morning, in the inventing room, and end up spending hours brainstorming together. Even when they were working on their own projects individually, they were bound to pass one another while collecting various sweets for their experimentations. But now, Charlie is lucky to see Wonka even once a day, at a meal. 

Charlie would much prefer thinking that this is just because Hallowe'en is approaching heralding the beginning of 'busy season.' From the beginning of October to the end of March or April (depending on when Easter falls), the factory goes into overdrive. But really, that makes even less sense, because with all that's going on, surely Charlie should find Wonka in the inventing room, or any of a dozen candy rooms he has, always in the past, frequented during 'busy season.' And then there's the fact that every time Charlie enters a room, there is the strangest sensation of aborted potential and abandonment, as if Wonka has just fled his ideas because he knew Charlie was coming. 

Charlie wants to shake him, tell him he's being ridiculous, wants to see the shock in Wonka's eyes at being physically and verbally assaulted, and as soon as Charlie gets him alone, he's going to. 

*

"Oh, Charlie," Wonka says, looking up from his experiment with a frozen smile and nervous laugh. "I didn't expect to see you down here." His smile quirks toward confusion. "Your mother told me you were going out." 

Charlie wants to smirk, because he's been cleverer than Willy Wonka, and his little trickery has worked. "I was struck with sudden inspiration." 

A pained look crosses Wonka's face for a brief moment before being smoothed away. "Well, don't let me get in the way. I was just heading out to the lake for some icing shavings. Better get up there before the lake thaws." 

Well. Not exactly unexpected, but still startling. From day one, Wonka has never enjoyed being displaced. For someone living in a dream world, he goes about things in a very structured sort of way. He's brilliant, and he more than loves what he does--he lives for it. It has always been understood that nothing should get in the way of his creative process, and Charlie can't understand what has happened that makes him so repulsive to Wonka that Wonka will give up his work to escape Charlie's presence. 

Wonka had discarded his hat and jacket, and doesn't bother even donning them, heading quickly for the door leading to the river; Charlie is blocking the elevator. Charlie knows how much Wonka prefers the elevator, and knows the trip to the lake will take at least triple the amount of time by boat, and Wonka hates wasting time. 

"Wait," Charlie calls, feeling a bit desperate. Wonka pauses, turning his head a bit to indicate he's listening, but not bothering to even look in Charlie's general direction. At the most inappropriate moments, Charlie gets these flashes of longing. He doesn't know what it is right now that causes it. Perhaps the line of Wonka's delicate waist, somehow made more vulnerable with only the thin white of his shirt. Or maybe it's the way Wonka's hand tightens around his cane with a creak of latex. Or the fact that Wonka is so untouchable and Charlie just wants to touch him. Wants to be allowed to touch him. "Don't you want to know my idea?" 

"Ah, I'm sure, Charlie, whatever it is, it will be brilliant," Wonka murmurs to the floor, but he still doesn't move from his spot. His eyes flicker toward the door and Charlie wonders what his stopping him. Charlie doesn't know what to say, so a long moment of silence passes and then Wonka clears his throat. "Okay then," He says, in a strangely pitched voice, and hurries down the tunnel toward the boat. 

Charlie collapses against the table with his face in his hands, gripping his hair tightly between his fingers. If his life was normal, Charlie might assume Wonka is playing hard to get. His life being what it is, Charlie doubts Wonka would ever notice if anyone was attracted to him, let alone be bothered about it. Charlie almost feels guilty over his attraction. Wonka has been very generous to Charlie and his family, and he is in many ways very innocent and uncomplicated. It is unfair of Charlie to try to ruin that innocence, to make things complicated for Wonka. How might the candy suffer then? 

*

It turns out that Charlie didn't really lie, because he goes into town anyway. His mum and dad go out of the time; ever since the last of his grandparents passed on, they have less of a reason to stick around the factory all day and night. Though they never say anything about it, Charlie imagines they're slightly uncomfortable living off Wonka's generosity. Dad never gave up his job at the toothpaste factory, and mum got a nice job at a clothing boutique doing alterations, and now they like to enjoy time together. It makes Charlie happy, because they deserve it, after all their years of hard working and suffering and sharing everything with their family and smiling through it all. Besides, he knows he and Wonka have the tendency to get a bit cliquish and no one likes to be around that sort of thing, even if it is unintentional. Even if he and Wonka haven't been being at all in the same room with one another lately, let alone cliquish. 

Charlie doesn't go out nearly so much as his parents. He's done all his schooling from a computer in the factory since they moved in, and he's never seen the reason in leaving when he has his family, his best friend, and the most amazing playground in the world all inside the factory. Still, he sometimes starts feeling a little disconnected from reality, and whenever he steps into the crisp London air, he feels like he's waking from a pleasant afternoon nap. 

Outside in the chill air, Charlie expects the heavy, hot weight in his stomach to dissipate, but it lingers unpleasantly, threatening to burst out into full blown depression at any minute. Charlie's science class says mood swings are inevitable at his age, and it hardly seems fair. He sways hesitantly on the street corner, unsure of what he's doing, or where he's going. Reality seems woefully hopeless, but dreaming isn't all so appealing at the moment, either. So Charlie wanders aimlessly for a while, instead. He ends up at a café in a mall, sipping some rather unimpressive, uninspired hot chocolate, and wondering bitterly why he left the warmth and comfort of the factory to come here and pay two and a half pounds for this, when he could have had so much better at home. He doodles in his notebook, outlining vague, fuzzy ideas for improvement, but paying more attention to the people around him than his own thoughts. 

There is a table of people is own age directly in front of Charlie's table, and it seems so unlikely that they should be of the same age, when they are so startlingly different from him. There is a girl with hair the colour of the cherry trees in the Chocolate Room, and a girl with piercings all up her ear and adorning her nose and brow. Both of them are dressed his shockingly short skirts and one is sucking on a lollypop that Charlie invented. The boys are how Charlie marks himself as an outcast, though. Charlie dresses casually in well worn khakis and a striped, long sleeved polo shirt. These boys are all dressed in black—baggy pants with chains and shirts covered in band logos of which Charlie's never heard. Charlie wears his hair neatly clipped close to his scalp. These boys wear their hair long and ratty. Charlie wants a man nearly three times his age, and can’t work up the courage to say a word. These boys grab at the girls boldly, and the girls respond just as eagerly, kissing and rubbing and talking in loud voices about very scandalous things, til Charlie is blushing and can't look at them anymore. He wonders if he is different because he's spent the last several years locked away from the world, or if he's always been fundamentally different. 

Someone walks through Charlie’s line of sight and after a moment of unfocussed inattention, Charlie is aware that that same someone is hovering over him. He blinks, blushing, and looks up, squinting into the bright over head lights. The man standing above him is maybe only a few years older than Charlie, with golden blonde hair and sparkling teeth that make Charlie think of very dangerous animals. 

“You’re Charlie Bucket, aren’t you,” He says, in a soft, awed voice that Charlie doesn’t buy for an instant. 

“Yes,” Charlie allows, and looks back down at his notebook, hoping the man will take the hint that he doesn’t want to talk, and move on. After a moment, there is the sound of the chair scraping on the floor and the man sits down across from Charlie. 

“I’m a huge fan of your work,” He says, laying a briefcase on the table and crossing his arms over it. “My name is Marcus.” 

“Very nice to meet you, Marcus,” Charlie says in a dull, bored voice, scratching out his ideas until they’re unreadable. He’s learned a few things from Wonka over the years, how to be off-putting and paranoid, to name two. 

“Working on new ideas, eh?” Marcus asks, leaning over the table a bit. Charlie applies so much pressure that the tip of his pen tears the paper. Marcus laughs nervously. 

“Look, I’ve seen you around, alright?” Charlie snaps, impatient, closing his notebook with a smacking sound. “Slugworth must think I’m awfully stupid.” 

Marcus’ face goes dark for just a second, and then he’s only smiling wider. “Charlie,” He says, cajolingly, slipping from the seat across from Charlie to the seat beside him. He’s really very attractive, in a much different way from Willy Wonka. Marcus is golden skinned and masculine, all sharp angles. Charlie can maybe understand why Slugworth sent him. “We don’t think you’re stupid at all. In fact, we think you’re very, very clever. It’s clear your talents are being wasted in that factory.” Apparently Marcus has more than one plan for attack. 

“How’s that?” Charlie asks, eyes narrowed, mouth twisted in a scowl. 

“Charlie,” Marcus nearly purrs, leaning nearer, so he can speak in a whisper for Charlie alone. Being this close to Marcus makes Charlie ache for Wonka. Charlie has to fight to keep his eyes from falling shut against the wave of emotion. “Wonka’s been moulding you from day one, readying you to take his place. He doesn’t encourage new ways of thinking; he’s been teaching you to think the way he does. Mr. Slugworth understands that you’re a very special young man, with a bright future. One that shouldn’t be locked away inside a boring factory all day.” 

Charlie snorts. “You really don’t know what you’re talking about,” He says, leaning in til his forehead nearly brushes Marcus’, and he gives a sly smirk. “You think I’m so clever? Here.” He pushes the book at Marcus and stands up, enjoying the startled look Marcus gives him. Charlie shrugs and turns away without another word. Marcus won’t find much of interest in there. It’s Charlie’s English notebook, and unless Marcus is somehow able to create candy from notes on Charles Dickens, he’s out of luck. Charlie grins to himself and thinks that Wonka would be proud. If Wonka ever spoke to him these days. 

The night is growing dark when Charlie makes his way home. The sky behind the factory is dark purple bleeding into black, and Charlie sees a million amazing things a day inside, but sometimes he misses something so simple as a natural sunset. Even so, Charlie breaths a sigh of relief when he steps inside. 

For just a moment, Charlie allows himself to think of how things might have been different if he’d taken up Slugworth’s offer, any of a million times. If he’d taken the offer tonight. Charlie worries he’s only growing further and further away from reality and the people for whom he is making candy. But the thought of losing Wonka, of causing Wonka any pain, of validating Wonka’s fears regarding trust…oh, it hurts Charlie like a sharp, bright wound in his chest. He almost loses his breath. 

He asks himself, “Is this what love feels like?” 

*

“Charlie.” Wonka’s voice is quiet and hesitant and seeps into Charlie’s daydreaming so that for a moment, he doesn’t realise he’s being addressed. A heavy hand lands on Charlie’s shoulder and he inhales a startled breath, turning his head. Wonka’s face is unnervingly close to Charlie’s. Charlie is very aware that it would only take very little effort—tilting his head, leaning in a few inches—and then he could taste for himself, that which he’s dreamed of tasting for so long. 

Charlie shakes himself out of his dream world and glances away from Wonka. They’re in the Chocolate Room, Charlie cross-legged on the grass and Wonka squatting beside him. Charlie feels both very close to and very far from Wonka all at once and the sensation is like something twisting high in his stomach. 

“Are you happy here?” Wonka asks suddenly, and Charlie spares him a sharp look before hurriedly turning his gaze back to the waterfall. 

It is a difficult question to answer with absolute honesty. After all, Charlie is quite happy _in_ the factory and perfectly happy with his future prospects and splendidly happy at his lot in life, while at the same time he’s never been quite so perfectly, splendidly miserable as he is now, seated next to what he cannot have. The beat of his heart is a heavy, rapid reminder of his longing. 

“I thought we should talk,” Wonka says after a long silence. Charlie chuckles a bit ruefully. He’s attempted at least a hundred times to start a conversation with Wonka in the past several months, and has been less than successful. Wonka generally avoids meaningful conversation; he is nearly never the instigator. Charlie supposes he should be thrilled, but he is too realistic to get his hopes up. 

“Charlie,” Wonka says, and now there is an edge in his voice. Charlie picks a blade of grass and begins to shred it with his fingers. It is unlike grass in this respect, because instead of several strands of frayed grass, Charlie is left with mint scented, crystallised sugar clinging to his fingers. 

“You’re here, I’m listening. Talk,” Charlie says, shrugging. He feels both vindicated and astonishingly childish. Isn’t that Wonka’s role? He sighs and turns in the grass to face Wonka, who is wearing a stunned expression. “I’m sorry,” Charlie murmurs. 

“No,” Wonka says hurriedly. “No, you’re very right to be angry with me, Charlie,” He admits. He studies the ground, shifting on his heels before finally settling on the swudge. Charlie can’t see his eyes beneath the rim of his hat and he has the ridiculous urge to knock it away. He resists. 

“I’m not angry with you,” He sighs, now feeling very old. 

“I’m worried, Charlie,” Wonka says slowly. His words ring out heavily in the Chocolate Room. Wonka doesn’t do worried. He doesn’t deal in emotions that require the dissipation of levity. “Please tell me if you’re happy here.” 

Charlie closes his mouth after he becomes aware he’s been gaping. He swallows hard. “I love the factory,” He answers honestly. 

Wonka’s lips are all of his face Charlie can see, and they curve in a wry smile. “That’s not exactly an answer.” 

“Why are you asking?” Charlie demands defensively, crossing his arms. He supposes he looks rather absurd in this position, but he doesn’t care. 

“Charlie, you were very young when you came here,” Wonka starts. 

“Not all that young,” Charlie protests. 

“Ten,” Wonka states. 

“Twelve!” Charlie shouts. It really doesn’t seem fair that Wonka is playing the age card on Charlie anyway, seeing that Wonka himself rarely behaves like anything so much as a stubborn ten year old. 

Wonka holds up a hand to forestall any further argument. “Young _er_ , then,” He says. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” He adds, smiling. “Youth was want I wanted. You’ve been such a wonderful partner. You’re ever so helpful, and your ideas are truly inspired, but…”

“But?” Charlie prompts. 

“Charlie.” Charlie is becoming rather unnerved by the way Wonka keeps using his name before everything he says. “I think it may have been a bit unfair of me to expect of you what I have.” Something sharp stings Charlie in the chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. What is Wonka _saying_? “You are a young man with a bright future ahead of you.” The words are starting to sound eerily familiar and Charlie tries desperately to place them. “It really isn’t fair of me to lock you up inside this factory all the time.” 

Charlie jumps to his feet. “ _You_ sent that Marcus guy after me!” Charlie demands, enraged. “How _dare_ you?” 

“Charlie,” Wonka says, hurrying to his feet as well, eyes wide and vulnerable. He reaches out and part of Charlie wants to allow the touch, because Wonka doesn’t offer it very often. Still, Charlie can’t bear it now, and jerks away. 

“I thought you _trusted_ me!” Charlie shouts, pacing away from Wonka, his vision spotty with rage. “I thought we were meant to be partners! Do you think I’m _stupid_? That I’d be so easily fooled, or were you just playing to my youth, hoping my desires would get the best of me?” 

“Charlie!” Wonka snaps, stepping firmly into Charlie’s path and grabbing his arms forcefully. Charlie is startled momentarily and Wonka takes advantage of the fact. “I did _not_ send ‘that Marcus guy.’” 

“Then how did you know what he’d said to me?” Charlie challenges. He wants to step closer to Wonka, but stays firmly in place. 

“I…” Wonka looks flabbergasted for a moment before his face goes purposefully blank. 

“What?” Charlie nearly screams, trying to shake free from Wonka’s grip. 

“I followed you,” He says at last. His voice and expression are petulant and more than a little guilty. 

“Foll…why?” Charlie does step closer know. He is still slightly shorter than Wonka, but this works to his advantage, because he gets to look up into that face, and Wonka can’t hide behind his hat. 

“I was merely curious,” Wonka says lightly. His voice wavers and he releases Charlie, hands falling uselessly to his sides. 

“You didn’t trust me,” Charlie accuses, eyes narrowing. 

“Well what am I supposed to think?” It is the first time Charlie has ever been yelled at by Willy Wonka, and it makes him take a step back in astonishment. Wonka has had his fair share of temper tantrums over the years, but they’ve never had this edge to them before. It’s both frightening and exciting. “To see you with Slugworth’s… _goon_. You looked pretty cosy.” Wonka is being unreasonable and his breath is coming fast and is terribly arousing to Charlie. 

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Charlie says gently. 

“Do I?” Wonka demands, voice still loud. He’s all guilty innocence, adult and still so young. Charlie feels such tenderness for him. “I saw you leaning together over your notes—” 

“I’d scratched them out,” Charlie interjects. 

“Saw you whispering to him,” Wonka goes on as if uninterrupted, eyes narrowing. 

“Me telling him to get lost,” Charlie murmurs softly, smiling a purely pleased smile. 

“You gave him your notebook.” 

“My school notebook.” 

Wonka’s eyes close briefly. “I saw the way you looked at him.” 

“And you were jealous,” Charlie finishes, very proud of himself. 

“This is entirely beside the point,” Wonka says and steps rapidly away from Charlie. “Things have got…awkward around here, Charlie, and I’m not certain it is working.” 

“What?” Charlie gasps, bewildered, because he didn’t see that coming. 

“I would not blame you if you wanted to take Marcus up on his offer,” Wonka says. Charlie searches for any sign that the mere suggestion hurts Wonka as much as it hurts him, Charlie. There is none. 

“I don’t _want_ to. I don’t want to leave the factory and I don’t want to have anything to do with Marcus or Slugworth. Or Ficklegruber, or Prodnose, or any of the others who have made their offers. I _love_ it here, and it doesn’t matter if I came here when I was young, because you don’t know how I _longed_ for this place even before I’d ever _heard_ of the Golden Tickets. This is my home!” Charlie is aware he sounds desperate, but Wonka _has_ to be made to understand. 

“Now, I’m not saying you have to leave,” Wonka says quickly. This is your factory after all. But perhaps the time has come for me to take my leave. You’ve learned quite a lot these years, and the Oompa Loompas will always be around to assist you.” Wonka is speaking very dispassionately and Charlie thinks he might still be dreaming. 

In his head, Charlie plays out a thousand scenarios in a second, all different ways of telling Wonka he’s wrong, of convincing him to stay. In reality, Charlie’s rooted firmly to the spot, mouth dry and glued shut by disbelief. Wonka opens his mouth as if he’s going to say more, but then he shakes his head minutely, closes his mouth with a snap and turns away. Half-way across the room he taps his cane against the ground and half turns to face Charlie again, raising a finger as if to add something. Again he proceeds on without a word. 

“Wait,” Charlie cries, but the word echoes uselessly in the room now empty save him. * Charlie lies awake for hours at night, thinking of all the things he _should_ have said or _could_ have done, but it is utterly useless to dwell on the past. He tries to come up with a plan for _now_ , because that is all that matters at this point. All he can think of now, though is what it would have been like if he’d just reached out…

It isn’t that Charlie hasn’t attempted to set things straight. While he might not have a sound plan, he’s thought several times that no plan is the best plan. Wonka won’t allow himself to be caught alone with Charlie, though. He won’t fall for the same trick twice. The man is absolutely infuriating, and they both know there are certain things Charlie won’t say around his parents. 

The bedroom is swathed in darkness and silence, and Charlie imagines if he closes his eyes and tilts his head to the wall, he can hear Wonka moving around in his room. It’s ridiculous. The walls here are soundproofed. But none-the-less, Charlie imagines it, and it sounds like Wonka slipping away. Sometimes Charlie can barely breathe for his wanting. He can’t imagine this level of desire is healthy, but what in this factory _is_?

It isn’t until Hallowe’en that Charlie realises that he’s waited too long. He takes the elevator to mechanical clouds, and on the way passes over one of many Oompa Loompa towns. Far below, thousands of the denizens are dancing and singing, celebrating the holiday. The factory is basically closed for all of Hallowe’en, running on auto-pilot, and every single Oompa Loompa has the day off to enjoy. Even with the far-away strains of music reaching his ears, Charlie feels an overwhelming dread tingling through him, chased quickly by the most peculiar sense of loss. 

The clouds are mostly empty, stretching forever in all directions, feathering blue and pink, grey and white. Wonka calls them mechanical, but Charlie hasn’t ever discovered why. They feel just as a cloud should, before science ruins the idea—fluffy, soft and barely solid. Charlie can stand safely on them, and hop from one to another, but when he attempts to grab a handful, the clouds turn to mist with the scent and flavour of cotton candy lingering in the air and on Charlie’s fingers. Charlie skips so far that he can’t see the elevator any longer, and there are a few Oompa Loompas bouncing on a cloud in the distance, and a few more drinking and singing close by. Charlie waves to them and they nod back. 

If Charlie looks down, he can see Fudge Mountain and Butterscotch Lake, and in the very far distance, the glittering black hole of the Rock Candy deposit. The absurdity of it all still makes Charlie smile, though now his expression is more wistful. “He’s gone,” He says under his breath, testing. It’s a theory he’s had. He hasn’t seen Wonka in at least a week. Given Wonka’s attempts to avoid Charlie, it’s very possible he’s just hiding out in some far reach of the factory, but Charlie knows better. Somehow, everything looks different. He isn’t surprised that Wonka would leave without saying goodbye, but he is a little stung. 

Charlie lies down on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows and spreads the cloud beneath his hands. The cloud parts easily and Charlie whips his finger in a circle very quickly, like Wonka taught him. The mist collects and gathers, spinning almost solid around Charlie’s finger, an impromptu treat. Charlie still remembers the first time Wonka showed him, and offered his finger to Charlie. Charlie had been twelve and delighted. He also remembers the last time Wonka offered. Charlie had been a week from sixteen, and had never experienced anything so erotic. 

“He’s gone,” Charlie says again, more firmly. “He’s gone.” A bit louder. “He’s gone,” He shouts, and the Oompa Loompas politely pretend they don’t hear. Charlie feels every bit of his sixteen years—inexperienced, immature, incapable—and starts laughing, but it goes a little strange and he stops himself with a hand over his mouth. Hysterics won’t do him or anyone else any good. He has to be strong for the Oompa Loompas, at least. Wonka chose Charlie years ago because he believed in him, and Charlie won’t let him down now, no matter what.

*

It would be nice, Charlie thinks, to give in to the enveloping pain of abandonment. It would be almost sweet to let the desperate, choking emptiness invade him entirely, but Charlie doesn’t allow himself that luxury. Thanksgiving follows fast on Hallowe’en’s heels, and there is much work to be done. Charlie spends his mornings with lessons, his afternoons in the inventing room and his evenings speeding from room to room making sure everything is in order for the approaching holidays. Already the stores are stocking up on Christmas candies, and Charlie has several new products to be produced and packaged. 

No one outside the factory seems to notice the change, but Charlie rather prefers things that way. He never signed on for the recognition, and he certainly doesn’t want tonnes of reporters knocking down his doors with questions. He knows that the moment the other candy makers find out that Wonka is gone Charlie will be bombarded with offers for mergers and buyouts. Charlie isn’t ready for dealing with the reality of Wonka’s departure. He isn’t sure he ever will be. 

Charlie hasn’t given up on Wonka, but he won’t be irresponsible. He knows Wonka is childish and impulsive and likes to take things to an extreme, and usually Charlie indulges him. Only this time Wonka’s taken things a bit _too_ far, and Charlie simply won’t allow it. One of the glass elevators is gone, and Charlie imagines Wonka has whisked himself off somewhere he thinks full of potential for romantic angst. Honestly, the man can be so ridiculous. As soon as he has a free moment, Charlie will hunt Wonka down and drag him back kicking and screaming, if necessary. It is this sense of purpose that keeps Charlie going, getting him through Thanksgiving, then Christmas and all his parents’ intrusive if well meant questions. 

By the time the new year rolls around, Charlie has quite gotten past hurt and has had plenty of time to get very, very angry. He wonders how that will play out when he runs into Wonka, and shivers in delightful anticipation at the prospect. He isn’t sure what he wants to do first, hit Wonka, or kiss him. He thinks they’ll be equally satisfying. 

*

When the time comes, Charlie does neither. Mid-march finds Easter gone and a sudden decline in sweet sales. It won’t last but a month, and Charlie takes full advantage of the lull in activity around the factory. The Oompa Loompas are more than capable of running things for a day or two. Charlie has considered how he will find Wonka, but when he has packed a small bag with a few changes of clothes and boards the elevator, he finds a conspicuously placed button that he could have sworn wasn’t there before. It is just beside the ‘Up and Out’ button, and reads ‘Where’s Wonka.’ Charlie isn’t one to look a gift Oompa Loompa in the mouth, and presses the button with mixed relief and dread. 

Charlie hasn’t been outside in the elevator in a long time. Wonka swears up and down that the device is safe, and Charlie has to admit that if it withstood the attack of the Vermicious Knid, it must be, but he’s never had any desire to press his luck. So when the elevator breaks free of the factory and soars up high into the early morning sky, Charlie’s heart lurches to his stomach and he has to close his eyes. When he opens them again, he is safely above the clouds and a button on the ceiling is flashing. It reads ‘Cloaks and Daggers.’ Charlie is slightly disturbed by the prospect of Daggers, and doesn’t know why he’d need them for wherever he’s going, but pushes the button none-the-less. There is no noticeable difference.

After a few useless moments of pacing, Charlie settles to the floor of the elevator, drawing his knees to his chest. He’s been wondering for months where Wonka’s got to, and there’s no telling what direction the elevator is heading, but Charlie allows himself to consider the possibilities. Wonka’s never been fond of cold weather, so he most likely did not head north. Charlie thinks that with Wonka’s proclivity for old Cary Grant movies, he may have headed to the Greek Islands. Of course, it’s always possible that Wonka’s gone to some remote jungle or desert island, or even settled down just a few blocks from the factory itself. 

But the hours stretch by, and Charlie thinks that Europe is, after all, a very small continent and he must have departed it long ago. Charlie’s legs are starting to cramp and he’s very glad that he brought food with him from the factory, or he’d be downright miserable. He’s very ill-tempered and is beginning to think Wonka is just ridiculous and deserves to be left wherever he is. 

When Charlie’s watch tells him he’s been flying for approaching seven hours, the elevator begins to slow and then slips neatly and smoothly from the clouds. Far beneath Charlie is a patchwork quilt of land. Golden, green, brown and bright red interspersed with shimmering blue. Long stretches of flat land eventually give way to rippling hills and it is here that the elevator dips lower. Charlie wasn’t aware how fast he’d been going before, but now he realises that the elevator is moving much quicker than any airplane by quite a lot. He doesn’t have the vaguest idea where he’s arrived. 

Eventually houses come into view—farms, widely spaced and joined by infrequent roads. A few cars travel on the wrong side of the road. He wonders if he is in America or Asia, and which Wonka would find more romantic. The elevator goes ever lower until Charlie is mere metres above the ground and skates along at a more moderate pace. When it lands, Charlie looks around himself in wonder. 

There are ostriches… _everywhere_. Surrounding Charlie on all sides are the birds he’s only ever seen before in pictures, pecking disinterestedly at the ground, moving with odd, jerky motions and paying no mind to the stranger in their midst. The elevator makes a dinging sound and the doors open. As Charlie gathers his things, he notices the “Where’s Wonka” button is gone, replaced with one that reads “Iowa.” 

Wonka’s idea of romance is slightly lost on Charlie. Nothing about Iowa seems even remotely idealistic. The weather is mild, somewhere in the high fifties. The ground is damp and slightly muddy and the humidity is high. The sky is overcast and it looks to be the same time here that it was when he left England. It is quiet here, like Charlie’s never experienced, with only the sounds of nature. Charlie moves between the birds cautiously, but they pay him no mind, and Charlie heads toward the house he sees in the distance, over high grass. 

Charlie sees Wonka for the first time in six months and he isn’t sure he can name which emotion he feels first. Wonka is dressed in the most ridiculous get-up—a well-fitting riding habit, pith helmet and draped in mombasa netting—and is poking an unresponsive ostrich with a stick. Wonka looks extremely agitated and ill put-together in more ways than one and Charlie decides it is tenderness that he feels most overwhelmingly, no matter what he felt first. He just wants to bring Wonka back.

As if Wonka senses him approaching, he drops the stick to the ground and gives up on his attempts with the ostrich altogether. He whips around when Charlie clears his throat and the dark look of his face clears immediately. He gives Charlie a stunningly bright smile that doesn’t belong here in dreary Iowa at all. “Charlie,” He greets, as if they’ve just bumped into one another casually and Wonka hasn’t been AWOL for half a year. Charlie wants to laugh at loud at the absurdity, but refrains.

“What were you trying to do with the ostrich?” Charlie asks, gesturing to the bird now flapping its wings a few yards away. 

Wonka looks over his shoulder in confusion and then back at Charlie. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,” He says plainly. Then he brightens again. “Why don’t you come inside for tea?”

Since Charlie hasn’t really planned for this, he can’t say things aren’t going to plan, but still, it all seems a bit strange. He had imagined a bit more of a fuss over his appearance. He follows Wonka, who is murmuring to himself and swaying his hips a bit and tapping a horsewhip insistently against his thigh. The house itself is rather small, two stories with a wrap around porch, but with only enough room for maybe three rooms a floor and in desperate need of a paint job…or entire renovation. Charlie knows not to be fooled by outside appearances and isn’t let down when he steps inside. The kitchen like something out of a guide to better homes and gardens, all lemon yellow and lime green all over and seemingly big enough to take up the entire first floor. It smells like allspice and nutmeg and freshly baked sweet potatoes.

“I don’t get a lot of visitors out here,” Wonka’s saying, like he’s disappointed. Charlie rolls his eyes. Wonka wouldn’t know what to do with a visitor if any happened upon him.

“I don’t imagine so,” Charlie remarks dryly. He glances at Wonka to find the man tangled up in his netting and struggling to get free and Charlie is reminded that he loves Willy Wonka quite a lot. With a small smile Charlie offers his help silently, freeing Wonka of the net and folding it aside neatly.

Wonka smiles sheepishly and murmurs a thanks, turning away quickly, but not before Charlie sees the blush on his cheeks. “So, Charlie,” Wonka begins and Charlie detects the edge of desperation in his voice, “what brings you to my humble llama farm?” He takes down two sets of cup and saucer and takes a porcelain teapot from the cosy, pouring a rosy liquid into both.

Charlie looks out the window in confusion. Perhaps the farm is much larger and he simply can’t see the llamas from here. “What brought you to Iowa?” Charlie counters, openly regarding Wonka. He can see several of tiny differences in the man. Wonka’s thinner now, his face less full. His skin has lost some of its pallor. Wonka’s hair has grown longer and Charlie thinks it suits him a bit better with long bangs falling to his cheekbones and the rest falling to his shoulders—it is redder now than before, maybe from the sun. Charlie is taller now, too, standing just an inch or two taller than Wonka. 

“Oh, is _that_ where I am?” Wonka asks. He brings Charlie his cup of tea along with a slice of warm sweet potato pie. “I rather thought I was in Switzerland! Though, you know, the elevator did take quite a long while to get here, all things considered, and that would explain why there are very few mountains and why everyone speaks improper English. _Iowa_? That won’t do at all! Who farms llamas in Iowa?” 

“I actually think llamas are farmed all over the United States,” Charlie informs helpfully. 

Wonka glares but refrains from arguing. “What _are_ you doing here, anyway?” He snaps. “Who’s running the factory?” 

“The Oompa Loompas,” Charlie says with a shrug. 

“But you can’t just leave the Oompa Loompas in charge of things!” Wonka wails. 

“Why not?” Charlie challenges. “They’re capable. You know they are. They run things on their own most of the time anyway.” 

“There are some tasks that Oompa Loompas simply aren’t big enough to handle,” Wonka says, wringing his hands. 

“They’ll manage,” Charlie says with finality. 

“No!” Wonka shouts, and stomps his foot once. Then he stomps it again. “No, that is simply _not_ how things are done.” 

“Its how they’re done _now_ ,” Charlie says, standing up. Wonka takes a sudden step back, as if threatened. “The factory is mine, and I’ll run it how I see fit.” 

Wonka’s mouth drops open in outraged disbelief and he makes a high-pitched sound of dismay before closing his mouth sharply with a loud click of teeth. Charlie takes a step closer and the corner of Wonka’s mouth ticks, and not in a pleasant way. 

“Why have you come here, Charlie?” Wonka asks, staring woodenly over Charlie’s shoulder. 

“Why did you leave the factory?” Charlie realises they might never get anywhere if they keep answering questions with questions, but he feels that he deserves an answer. 

“I told you at first that as soon as you were old enough, the factory would be yours,” Wonka says matter-of-factly. “You’re seventeen, Charlie, and you are very capable of running the factory how you see fit.” Charlie has always hated the way Wonka uses others own words against them. It is even less pleasant when the words being used are Charlie’s.

“You can’t mean that!” Charlie protests. “Even if…even if you don’t want to run things any longer, the factory is your home. You can’t tell me you’re happy here.” Wonka says nothing, but straightens up a bit, his neck tight and taunt. 

Charlie sighs and moves closer to Wonka, stopping before touching Wonka’s arm. “When you first told me that the factory was mine, I was so very elated, because I knew that I would be spending the rest of my life with you.” Wonka’s eyes widen and he looks up at Charlie with a blank expression of surprise. Charlie smiles gently and reaches out his fingers every so slowly. He can’t stop the rush of pure delight and arousal he feels when Wonka doesn’t stop him and Charlie’s fingers brush the smooth skin of Wonka’s cheek. 

“The factory is my home now, too, and I love everything about it. But it doesn’t feel right without you. I may be good at running things, and fixing things, and guiding the Oompa Loompas, and I might even come up with some good ideas for new candies every now and then, but I don’t have the magic you do. I can’t bring things to life, like you do. Without you, it’s just a chocolate factory.” Charlie’s hand brushes aside a silky fall of hair, cupping Wonka’s cheek and he can feel Wonka’s fast breath falling on the inside of his wrist. Wonka trembles under the touch most delightfully.

Charlie has had sixth months to get things straight in his head. When Wonka was around, it was difficult to think clearly. It was difficult to distinguish what was real and what was merely his hormone clouded perception. With Wonka gone, Charlie went through quite a range of emotions, all powerful and painful. He knows now that it would have been easy to stop loving Wonka, and if he’d been weaker, that’s just what he would have done. Now when he looks at Wonka, the attraction is a dull throb, insistent but quiet. It is his love that clouds his perception now, making Wonka seem more lovely than ever. 

“Please come back,” Charlie murmurs. It would be so easy to kiss Wonka now and Charlie feels dizzy with the possibility, but doesn’t act.

Wonka sags against the counter behind him, and his posture is all defence—his arms gripping the sink, drawing his body in and jutting out his elbows, all sharp angles. Charlie drops his hand and Wonka lets out a shuddering sigh of relief. He turns his head, looking out the window. “The llamas,” He protests half-heartedly.

Charlie still only sees ostriches. “Birds are rather clever. They’ll fend for themselves.” 

Wonka arches an annoyed brow and looks as if he’s about to argue over just what animal is outside. Then he shrugs easily, standing upright. “Well, they are very self-sufficient. Why, I can’t get them to do a single thing I want.”

Charlie chuckles. “So you’ll come back?”

“Now, Charlie,” Wonka says, wagging a finger and looking a bit uneasy, “I’m not so sure that would work.” He slides easily from between Charlie and the counter, dancing away to a safe distance. “I can’t just _come back_. Can you imagine how that would look? A little uncouth, yes? A little desperate?”

“No one outside the factory knows. You can tell the Oompa Loompas you were away on a research trip,” Charlie says helpfully.

“I’ve been gone six months on a research trip and I come back with some llama hair?” Wonka demands. “That won’t do at all.”

“You could bring some ostrich feathers,” Charlie mutters and Wonka glares at him. Charlie sighs a little. “You mean to tell me that the entire time you’ve been gone you haven’t invented a single thing?”

“Well…” Wonka draws his toe delicately across the floor, not meeting Charlie’s eyes. “I _did_ have an idea or two. I’ve come up with Tickling Taffy, and with summer coming, I thought my new Liquid-Lemon Lime Drops would be quite a hit! They’re solid when you swallow them, you see.” His eyes light up and Charlie can’t go back without this. “But once they’re in your stomach they dissolve and go tingling all through your veins. They’re so cool and refreshing!”

“See, then, it’ll be fine!” Charlie says.

Wonka’s smile fades a bit. “Charlie…” His voice has that serious quality that Charlie has only heard very rarely. “You’re very young, and you might not understand, but—”

“You’re right, I won’t understand, because this is foolish. You want me to run the factory the way I see fit? Fine! I want to run it with you. Come _home_ ,” Charlie says coaxingly. He moves close to Wonka again, taking Wonka’s elbow in hand and Wonka moves toward him jerkily, as if he’s fighting with himself. His eyes are wide and vulnerable. “Please come home with me,” Charlie whispers.

Wonka’s so close now that Charlie imagines he could take a deep breath and their chests would touch. He tilts his head back to look into Charlie’s face. He looks a little sad and tragic, like he’s just surrendered to some awful fate, and Charlie can’t imagine what the problem is. “Yes,” Wonka says, like a sigh. * Charlie doesn’t know what he expected, but he’s pretty sure this isn’t it. He supposes he thought things would change, and they have, a little. There are slight changes, all just on the edge of discomfort: the way Wonka’s smile is a bit too fixed and bright; the way Wonka quivers when Charlie gets too near, like he’s fighting the urge to run; the way Mother and Father share concerned, pitying looks when they think Charlie doesn’t see. Charlie has taken to grinding his teeth. A dreadful habit and he’s disappointed in himself, but thinking about it only makes him grind his teeth a bit more forcefully. 

Days like today, things are almost normal. It’s April Fools Day, and that day has always been a favourite of several of the more mischievous Oompa Loompas. Charlie’s been on the receiving end of several of Thomas’ jokes, and Roxanne is ambitious enough to go after Wonka every year, even if she never succeeds. The whole factory is like one giant booby-trap for disaster and Charlie is very careful of what he says and does and touches, and where he walks, but he’s not annoyed. Even Wonka’s been playing along today, giving Mother a new candy that tasted like cabbage and setting a whoopee cushion under Father’s seat. It’s all very juvenile, but Charlie can’t help but grin. 

They’ve spent most the afternoon ensconced in the Inventing Room, where the Oompa Loompas know not to joke. It’s rather devoid of activity today, which suits Charlie just fine. Wonka has always seemed to thrive on the crazy energy of the factory, and the Inventing Room in particular, but sometimes it just wears Charlie out. In the quiet, with just the hissing of the machines around them, Charlie’s been working on an equation for Wonka’s new candy umbrellas, so they can be both functional and edible. 

“I can’t concentrate,” Wonka admits and Charlie looks up at him, startled. Wonka has the look of someone who hasn’t been sleeping very well. It’s nothing very noticeable, or else Mother and Father would be worried sick. But it’s the way the shadows under Wonka’s eyes seem a bit darker than usual, and the make-up over them thicker, or the way Wonka’s clothing is a bit less complicated, like he didn’t want to fuss with layers and just grabbed whatever was first in his closet. It’s also the way he walks, slow and even with none of his usual energy, and the way he rests his chin languidly in hand while doodling nonsense on his notes, looking on the verge of sleep. 

Charlie says nothing in response and Wonka sighs, making a face of annoyance and dismay. He gets that look when Charlie doesn’t do what Wonka expects him to do. Sometimes it fills Charlie with a perverse sense of accomplishment. “Charlie,” He begins in a voice bare of tolerance. 

“Alright, alright,” Charlie huffs, grinning, “why is it that you can’t concentrate?” He asks, crossing his wrists and leaning over the table to fix Wonka with a look of faux concern and fascination. Wonka huffs right back and Charlie is very happy in this moment. Wonka’s no longer been avoiding him, at least, and they’re talking, and he can be happy with just this.

“Because of you,” Wonka says bluntly, with a pout in his voice. Charlie sits up in surprise, but Wonka goes on. Charlie wishes he wouldn’t. “You’re very distracting. You think so loud it hurts my head, and I try to ignore you, but you make it impossible in everything you do.” 

“I…I’m sorry,” Charlie mumbles blankly. His mouth feels a little numb, which makes speaking difficult. He stands, quickly gathering his things. “I can go somewhere else—”

“No,” Wonka says quickly. His eyes are glittering, and Charlie hasn’t seen that in so long. He sets his things back on the table and waits. “I’m not doing this properly,” Wonka murmurs under his breath, and he sounds angry with himself. “Charlie…” Wonka shakes his hair out of his eyes and meets Charlie’s eyes. He looks uncharacteristically serious and it worries Charlie. 

“Yes?” Charlie asks hesitantly, taking his seat again. 

“Surely you have noticed the decline in candy sales since my return...” 

“It’s the time of year,” Charlie says quickly. 

“Maybe,” Wonka allows, tipping his head thoughtfully. “This isn’t, after all, the first time I’ve seen such a decline.” 

Charlie remembers how horrid things had been for Wonka’s candies when Charlie had refused to come to the factory. They’d been even worse when Grandma Georgina had died. 

“Yes, then,” Wonka says, nodding, like he’s reading Charlie’s mind, or maybe just his face. “And just last year. Dr. Spencer helped me to realise it’s my fault…That my emotions effect the candy.” Wonka sounds both excited and miserable. “That’s why I had to leave, Charlie, because I couldn’t let this place suffer because I can’t…I can’t…”

“Yes?” Charlie prompts carefully, concerned. 

“I _can’t_ ,” Wonka hisses, and jumps up from his seat. He has the expression of a caged animal, anxious and trapped. 

“Can’t what?” Charlie asks, standing too, but afraid to approach Wonka. 

“I can’t do any of this,” Wonka says insistently. “This _isn’t_ what I wanted. I wanted someone like me: someone who thinks the way I do, who could share my vision…”

“Are you saying that I don’t?” Charlie interrupts, a sharp pain high in his chest. He knows he isn’t so clever as Wonka, but years of working alongside him has familiarised Charlie with Wonka’s puns and clever turns of phrase. Certainly he doesn’t have the same magic that Wonka does, but he’s always loved candy, and has been more than happy to make it his life. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Wonka says, scowling. “I needed someone without goal or ambition. Making candy isn’t about what we get from it. It’s about what we give.” 

“You’re just trying to avoid being plain about it,” Charlie says, fighting the urge to grind his teeth. “You don’t want to admit you were just looking for a playmate.” 

“Well what’s wrong with that, Charlie?” Wonka demands, eyes wide and defenceless. “I expected you to be a certain way, but when you weren’t, I didn’t want you to change. But you’ve insisted on changing me!” 

“What do you mean?” Charlie asks, and knows he’s speaking too loudly. He can’t help it. He’s always loved Wonka, even if the nature of the love has changed. “I’ve never wanted you to be anything other than what you are!” 

“That isn’t true!” Wonka shouts fervently. “You’ve wanted me to be _yours_.” Wonka gasps the moment the words have escaped his mouth, a shuddering sound and he takes a step backward. He looks terrified, as terrified as Charlie feels. After a long moment, Charlie takes a step toward him, but Wonka holds up a warning hand. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong,” He says shakily. “You’ve wanted me to be more serious, I know you have. Well, here it is.” 

“Mister Wonka,” Charlie says slowly, not sure what to say next, and trying to think of something, but his mind his just blank. Probably because he knows what Wonka is saying is the truth. Charlie has wanted more from Wonka. He’s wanted physicality, yes, and he’s wanted some sign that Wonka can invest in a real relationship. 

“I can feel you looking at me, and I know what you want, and I can’t work like this!” Wonka exclaims. 

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” Charlie says at last, barely more than a whisper. He risks a look at Wonka and the older man’s eyes are closed in pain, his lashes trembling against his cheeks. 

“So…so _do_ something,” Wonka sighs. Charlie isn’t sure he understands, and Wonka looks like he’s bracing himself for something horrible. 

Charlie takes a hesitant step forward. “What do you…”

Wonka’s eyes snap open and he’s shaking, like he’s fighting with himself to stay still. “Do something,” He says through his teeth. Charlie doesn’t understand anything and shrugs helplessly. “I can’t _take_ this anymore,” Wonka wails, putting his hands to his head and squeezing. Charlie’s worried he’s going to pull his hair out. 

“Mister Wonka,” He says gently. 

“I don’t understand these things, Charlie, I’ve never wanted to before.” Wonka speaks quickly and quietly, like if he doesn’t say this fast enough, he’ll never finish. “You make my skin tingle and my head spin and you make me…you make me…” He blushes darkly and Charlie can imagine where that’s going. “I just can’t _take_ it anymore, all these sensations, so please, do _something_.” 

Charlie shakes his head in wonder and steps up to Wonka, cutting him off with a firm, quick kiss. A moment passes—brief, but palpable—before Wonka jumps in Charlie’s arms and pulls away. “Charlie!” His protest comes a moment too late, and his indignance sounds largely insincere. “I don’t know how that’s supposed to make things better.” 

“Oh?” Charlie asks, smiling. “Well, define better.” 

Wonka fidgets, not meeting Charlie’s eyes. “I just want this to stop. I want to be able to function properly again without all this…all this…” Wonka is so rarely at a loss for words, but then, Charlie hasn’t ever heard him discussing his feelings so openly before. 

“Maybe,” Charlie says slowly, hopefully, stepping close to Wonka again. Wonka shivers but doesn’t withdraw. “Maybe it has to get worse before it can get better.” He places his arms around Wonka’s waist, lets them rest lightly on Wonka’s hips and Wonka leans into Charlie just slightly, placing his hands on Charlie’s forearms. 

“How do you mean?” Wonka asks, his voice shaky. 

Charlie leans in again, more slowly this time. Wonka’s eyes are wary, but he tilts his head back. Charlie’s new to this kissing thing, but he’s had plenty of time to think about it, and he’s determined to get it right. He closes the space between them gently. Wonka’s lips are hard and cool. If lips can be dubious, his are, but Charlie has had plenty of experience in convincing Wonka of things. Charlie suckles at Wonka’s lower lip, tracing his tongue over the soft skin and that’s all it takes. Wonka sags in his arms with a little whimper and his mouth opens. 

Immediately, Charlie has an inkling he’s done the right thing. Wonka’s hands slide up Charlie’s arms and shoulders and he grabs hold of Charlie’s collar, tugging him closer. Charlie takes the invitation, sliding his tongue inside Wonka’s mouth. It isn’t surprising that Wonka tastes like sweets—in fact, it’s just how Charlie’s always imagined it. Wonka’s tongue slides against Charlie’s, meltingly warm; his mouth sucks at Charlie like he’s candy. Charlie lets his arms close more tightly around Wonka, drawing him near until there is no more space between them and Wonka’s body is pressed hard against Charlie. 

“I...” Wonka gasps, breaking away from the kiss. Charlie is thrilled that Wonka makes no move to leave his embrace. 

“Feel any better?” Charlie asks, quirking a brow. 

Wonka shakes his head fervently. “Worse,” He says, the very slightest beginnings of a mischievous smile curling his lips. He’s the one who leans in for the second kiss.


End file.
